Towards the mess, take a slight left turn,
You will see a room, in the face of sun,
Precisely, you get this direction,
Then you stand at the door of room # B-1
Still, you got that confusion
To spot out my room # B-1,
Perhaps then, you may want a small hint,
Simple, ideally follow the course of wind.
GPS, maps and compass you need not
Or laud praises in the name of lord
To get to my room, no haste and don’t run
For the room is conspicuous, room # B-1.
Before the room stands Pterocarpus, a massive tree,
A small garden with flowers that sway free,
Dull looking door with none to adorn
Has the room # B-1.
And if, of your instincts, you’re sure
Give a knock or gentle tap on the door,
Smiling, busy, worn-out or with a yawn
But, you will be welcomed in room # B-1.
Through the window, drawn with brown curtain,
You have the panoramic view of distant mountain,
Birds, amazing creatures and of seasonal flowers you learn
in this room, room # B-1.
Have hot steaming tea, feel at home
For whoever has come,
Spent few minutes here and did return
Always covets to be back here, room # B-1.
I did enjoy and I had fun,
Reminiscences of works well done!
And of a thing I shall warn,
Once here, twice you’ll be, room # B-1
Karma Thukten
09th of November, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
AN EPISTLE
A LETTER FROM MY YOUNGER SISTER
I
Was peeking through the window ajar, a tree squealing in the storm, its apex bent through considerable angle that I feared the tree would break, thick droplets of rain pattering over black pitched road and people pacing to and fro hastily not forgetting to exchange rapid greeting by way of reluctant nods, when I heard footsteps approaching the threshold of my door.
‘Tap…tap’, someone knocked, I shrugged woolen blanket from my warmly wrapped body aside and stood up to see who it was.
Drenched in the rain, hairs muddled into messy strands and with an agitated face stood our college messenger in a bowing posture,
“Sir, I got a letter for you” and shoved his fumbling hand into his hemchu*and took out a crumbled envelope, bearing my name,
‘‘To,
Karma Thukten
Sherubtse College- Kanglung’’
On the right top vertex was pasted a torn stamp with a fortress bearing the name- Paro Dzong** in silhouette, rest being rendered obscure possibly by the water that seeped in the messenger’s pocket. I could see Nu.10 on the stamp and partially distorted seal, “Wamrong post office”. The stamp had a serrated outline.
“Any idea, who sent this letter to me?”
“I have no idea sir; it was brought to me by the postman. I thought it would be imperative and mean emergency so I rushed here”.
“ Here, sir’’, the messenger handed over the epistle and hurried downstairs giving me no opportunity to even say,’’ Thank you” or call him over a cup of hot steaming tea.
Looking at the envelope from all facets conjecturing who would have sent it, a medium that’s nudged away and ignored by many upon the advent of modern media, I sat on the pile of my blanket heaped on the bed to open it.
I tore open the envelope assuring the page inside intact and sent my inquisitive glances over the words written.
It was one paged letter penned down over an orthodox ruled paper with horrible pencil handwriting to have been written by any of my adult friends, to the best of my knowledge and it read:
It was a brief writing jotted down with much perseverance and love by my younger sister, Tshewang Lhamo whom we fondly call zamin meaning ‘girl’ in our eastern parlance, at home.
I felt a sudden trauma in my heart as I read through the lines. It has been awhile and possibly ages since I haven’t met my family and to get apprised my younger brother, Dawa fallen ill. The letter, though brief appeared so eloquent, though erroneous looked grammatically perfect and reading for more than thrice had me shedding brimful of tears.
For sometime, I lay on my bed looking at how my joy could fit in that piece of chit my younger sister sent me. I knew I wouldn’t have been that exulted had some bosses in a firm sent a promotion memo or a billet-doux from one’s heartthrob.
Messages in a phone get deleted, sweet words of our sweet heart get forgotten, that can only be partially remembered upon hard recollection but a letter of that ilk from someone who loves you beyond surmise more than your love remains there to be read once, twice, thrice and repeatedly to smile amid tears and feel someone’s there for you when whole world stands aside, away from you.
I can’t say how happy I was that moment but can certainly bet I was the happiest of all, that very moment.
Karma Thukten
4th of November, 2010
*Hemchu is a pocket made by a Bhutanese male gown
I
Was peeking through the window ajar, a tree squealing in the storm, its apex bent through considerable angle that I feared the tree would break, thick droplets of rain pattering over black pitched road and people pacing to and fro hastily not forgetting to exchange rapid greeting by way of reluctant nods, when I heard footsteps approaching the threshold of my door.
‘Tap…tap’, someone knocked, I shrugged woolen blanket from my warmly wrapped body aside and stood up to see who it was.
Drenched in the rain, hairs muddled into messy strands and with an agitated face stood our college messenger in a bowing posture,
“Sir, I got a letter for you” and shoved his fumbling hand into his hemchu*and took out a crumbled envelope, bearing my name,
‘‘To,
Karma Thukten
Sherubtse College- Kanglung’’
On the right top vertex was pasted a torn stamp with a fortress bearing the name- Paro Dzong** in silhouette, rest being rendered obscure possibly by the water that seeped in the messenger’s pocket. I could see Nu.10 on the stamp and partially distorted seal, “Wamrong post office”. The stamp had a serrated outline.
“Any idea, who sent this letter to me?”
“I have no idea sir; it was brought to me by the postman. I thought it would be imperative and mean emergency so I rushed here”.
“ Here, sir’’, the messenger handed over the epistle and hurried downstairs giving me no opportunity to even say,’’ Thank you” or call him over a cup of hot steaming tea.
Looking at the envelope from all facets conjecturing who would have sent it, a medium that’s nudged away and ignored by many upon the advent of modern media, I sat on the pile of my blanket heaped on the bed to open it.
I tore open the envelope assuring the page inside intact and sent my inquisitive glances over the words written.
It was one paged letter penned down over an orthodox ruled paper with horrible pencil handwriting to have been written by any of my adult friends, to the best of my knowledge and it read:
It was a brief writing jotted down with much perseverance and love by my younger sister, Tshewang Lhamo whom we fondly call zamin meaning ‘girl’ in our eastern parlance, at home.
I felt a sudden trauma in my heart as I read through the lines. It has been awhile and possibly ages since I haven’t met my family and to get apprised my younger brother, Dawa fallen ill. The letter, though brief appeared so eloquent, though erroneous looked grammatically perfect and reading for more than thrice had me shedding brimful of tears.
For sometime, I lay on my bed looking at how my joy could fit in that piece of chit my younger sister sent me. I knew I wouldn’t have been that exulted had some bosses in a firm sent a promotion memo or a billet-doux from one’s heartthrob.
Messages in a phone get deleted, sweet words of our sweet heart get forgotten, that can only be partially remembered upon hard recollection but a letter of that ilk from someone who loves you beyond surmise more than your love remains there to be read once, twice, thrice and repeatedly to smile amid tears and feel someone’s there for you when whole world stands aside, away from you.
I can’t say how happy I was that moment but can certainly bet I was the happiest of all, that very moment.
Karma Thukten
4th of November, 2010
*Hemchu is a pocket made by a Bhutanese male gown
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